


I Saw You Like a Summer Dream

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:59:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://darkestnight01.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://darkestnight01.livejournal.com/"><b>darkestnight01</b></a> gave me the bunny of biker guy Dean in his leather jacket, and Castiel running the gas station in the middle of nowhere. This was written in a series of eight twitlonger fics. I might actually take it down and revise it for publication, but until then, enjoy it :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Saw You Like a Summer Dream

They exchange no more than a few words each time he stops, but the few words are enough to get Dean's curiosity running. The name tag says CASTIEL, which Dean figures is a hick name, somewhere between Cassius and Cassidy. But the man's face doesn't say hick, and neither do his words.

Dean growls up on his baby one dusty afternoon to grab some Slim Jims and a soda, and Hi-My-Name-Is-CASTIEL takes his money, silently cha-chings the register, and then says, "Would you like me to wash down your motorcycle?"

"She's not a motorcycle, she's a Harley," Dean says proudly, and Castiel's brow wrinkles.

"I wasn't aware there was a difference," he said.

Who the hell has a hick name and runs a lonely little gas station and talks like that? Maybe he's from outer space. "Well, there is," Dean says. "And I can hose her down myself."

Castiel's eyes lower. "Of course. I didn't mean to imply you couldn't." Like his feelings are hurt or something. Dean thinks it's weird enough to let it go. There's a reason he rides alone. He's not good at people who are socially well-adjusted, much less those who are as bad at conversation as he is.

Another time he's filling up, and he can feel Castiel watching him. Just watching. So he looks up and waves, trying to be the social one for once, and Castiel looks away as though it's some kind of crime to be caught looking at probably the only other live person he's seen all day.

How he stays in business is beyond Dean, but different strokes for different folks, right?

So he's weird, but Dean likes it, and he feels comfortable there. So he fills up and grabs snacks and gets going again, all without a word, always curious, but liking being curious, liking the unanswered questions.

And then his bike breaks down three miles down the road, and that's when the questions start getting answered.

* * *

His name is Dean, if his credit card is to be believed. Castiel vaguely recalls that he used a card with a different name, once, the first time he came through. But after that he always used one named Dean, and Castiel figures that's his real name if only because aliases are so much harder to keep track of. And Castiel should know.

He never knows when Dean will come by, but it's always a pleasant surprise, and Castiel always searches for the words to speak with him, but they seldom come. Instead, he confuses Harleys and motorcycles (who knew?) or inadvertently insults the man, and every time gets a big, friendly smile nonetheless. Enough to give Castiel hope that next time he'll get it right.

And then, one day, Dean appears not on the gleaming back of his Harley but trudging alongside it, soaked in sweat, arms and face red with exertion. "Gimme a water," he says, his voice dust-choked, and Castiel hands over the bottle of water and watches Dean drink the whole thing in one gulp. His throat bobs, and sweat trickles down along his chin, hanging at the very bottom before dropping to the floor.

"Another," he says, only a little less raspy, and hands over another dollar bill.

This one he takes outside. Castiel moves to the window to watch, his insides burning, unable to look away. Dust has frosted the windowpane with a red tint, and Dean is sepia-toned as he slings off the oppressive weight of his leather jacket, revealing a sweat-stained tank top that must have once been white.

And as Castiel stares, palms widespread on the windowpanes, Dean empties the second bottle of water over his head.

Wet, spiking hair, water mixing with sweat, soaking his clothes, rivulets sliding down his chest and beneath his shirt. His nipples peaking beneath the soaked cotton. His face tipped up in ecstasy and relief. Shaking himself dry, droplets flying everywhere. It's all fragments of an image, slow-motion close-ups of tiny details, and Castiel is moved, changed by each one. Something in him that's stayed dormant for a long time can't be controlled a moment longer.

He leaps over the countertop like an athlete and strides out the door.

* * *

For a moment Dean thinks the heat's got to him. He's imagined Castiel out from behind the counter, like the figure of a goddess emerging from a mirage, the last dream of a man dying of thirst and heat. Because the Castiel he knows (from their three dozen or so exchanged words) doesn't do that; he appears only at a distance, unless you corner him behind the register. And he certainly doesn't get closer.

But Dean, dripping, his jacket slung over one of the pumps to protect it from his impromptu baths, is not moving, and Castiel is definitely getting closer. So maybe he's dying. Or maybe he's already died and this is heaven, because Castiel is squinting into the sun but he's also, inexplicably, smiling just a little.

"You could come upstairs and take a shower," he says.

Dean looks up at the second floor of the station. "You live up there?"

Castiel nods. "What happened?"

"She broke down," Dean says. "Bout three miles that way." He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

"And you pushed her this whole way?" The squint on his face right now isn't because of the light -- Dean's being examined, like a specimen on a slide, and he wriggles a bit in his sweaty clothing. "You could have called. I have a pickup."

"Like I ever bothered to get your number." Dean shrugs, trying to keep his expression lighthearted.

"Guess I should fix that."

For a moment he thinks Castiel's coming on to him. But Dean's been passed by, and Castiel's running his hands over the silver metal, the pistons and bulges of the motor, and nodding with a scowl on his face. "I think I see where the problem is."

"You can fix Harleys?" Dean's eyes are wide enough to invite in a duststorm.

Castiel eases the bike forward and brings it around to the back of the shop. Dean follows, in a daze, and finds a veritable graveyard of bike parts, a few partially assembled rides, and one perfect if dusty old-school Harley. "Wh-where did you--"

He's cut off by the sudden intake of his own breath when Castiel smiles. A key flashes as it arcs through the air. "Let yourself in, go shower. I have clean clothes that should fit you. I'll fix this in a moment."

His hands are wide open. Dean stares at them at the spread of their fingers, and thinks about them working with his baby, nimble and long and sensual, easing her gears back into working order. The shower he takes might have to be cold.

* * *

Castiel can't find the part anywhere. He's turned his mini-storeroom upside down and is despairing of discovering it. He thinks he sees it sitting on a high shelf and is dragging a stool over to make a mad climb for it when a throat clears itself behind him.

He turns and nearly kicks the stool halfway across the room.

Dean's hair is wet, but combed, and one of Castiel's gray T-shirts is wrapped around him, a little tight where Dean's muscular and Castiel's only ever been slender. There are grease stains on the shirt, and Castiel blanches with embarrassment to think that he had slipped it back into his closet without scrubbing out that stain. Living in the middle of nowhere has not been good for his formerly fastidious cleanliness. He's gotten sloppy, and he reddens, tries not to fixate on where the stains paint a dark shadow across the ripple of Dean's pectorals and his stomach.

"Thanks for the shower," Dean says. "I feel a lot better."

"I'm glad," Castiel says, trying in vain to tear his eyes away. "I'm sorry about the stains. I used to be a lot more conscientious."

"What for? You live in the middle of nowhere." Dean wanders over to the shelf, stands beside him and stares at the various parts. "So is this how you stay afloat? Fixing bikes?"

"No, this is a hobby." Castiel sets up the stool, gets up, and tries to ignore the fact that as he reaches for the elusive piece of metal, his shirt is riding up and giving Dean a fine view of his midriff at eye level. "This whole station is, really. A hobby. It keeps me from spending all day indoors."

"Oh." Dean wavers. "So how do you--"

Castiel snags the part and retreats from his position on the stool. He's several paces away when Dean buys into the silence. "Never mind, man, you don't have to tell me."

Castiel sighs out a breath and crouches near the bike. With the wrench in his hands and his fingers on the motor, he feels a lot calmer. He takes a deep breath and raises his eyes to Dean's.

Dean's eyes are radiating curiosity, but the patient kind. The kind that appreciates the moment of not knowing. The kind that Castiel could confide in.

And the grease-stained shirt, Castiel's shirt, makes Dean feel like part of Castiel's world already. He's already been in his shower, seen his little bike shop. And Castiel's seen Dean's body dripping with sweat and water, heard his voice hoarse with desperation. They're all things he wouldn't mind seeing and hearing again.

He takes a breath. "It's all right. I can tell you."

* * *

"You've what?"

Castiel smiles, shyly, and Dean is really having trouble getting over that smile. "I've written a few books. They were rather well-received."

"Jesus." Dean throws his head back and laughs. "I thought you were gonna tell me you were in witness protection or something."

"Sadly, no." Castiel seems to appreciate the thought. "But I've found I don't like to draw attention to it. It's embarrassing."

"Still, they must have been incredible books to keep you going at this middle-of-nowhere place." Dean looks around. "Do you even get any other customers?"

"Occasionally." A satisfying click of metal, and Castiel stands up. "I think your baby should be ready to move now."

Dean blushes. "Did I call her that in front of you?"

"Not when you knew I was listening."

"Damn." Dean whistles. "You must write detective novels, then."

And to his great surprise, Castiel reddens. "Yes," he says.

"I'm not a book person," Dean says, feeling pretty sheepish about it right now, "but what's the..."

"The Angel Detective."

Dean's jaw goes right to the dirt. Castiel moves to a spigot, the kind usually attached to a garden hose, and washes the grease from his hands. A patch of dirt turns to dark mud beneath them.

"Wait," Dean says, and his voice is unruly, breaking. "Wait, the Keanu Reeves movie? The one with the private eye from Heaven? But that makes you--"

Castiel retreats a few more steps, finding a rag to dry his hands on. His eyes don't meet Dean's.

Dean can feel his discomfort, but he has to at least finish the thought. "--James C. Novak? That's you?"

"Castiel is my middle name," Castiel mutters. "I'm very uncomfortable with discussing it."

He's looking down, and there's a bit of grease on his cheek, just under his cheekbone, and it's driving Dean nuts. "OK," he says, swallowing his surprise. He moves toward Castiel slowly, like he's approaching a skittish animal. "OK, we won't discuss it. I always thought that movie looked dumb anyway." Castiel's eyes fly to his, and Dean grins. "Kidding. Hold still."

His thumb comes up and connects with Castiel's face, drawing the oil off of it. He's almost positive Castiel is holding his breath. He knows he is.

"I don't think I introduced myself," he says, surprised by the softness in his own voice. "I'm Dean. But I bet you already figured that out."

Castiel swallows. In the flare of the setting sun, his eyes oscillate between orange and blue. Impossible eyes.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" he asks.

* * *

Dean wears his jacket into the apartment, leather over grease-stained cotton, and Castiel finds himself praying to God he returns that shirt so Castiel can put it on and wrap himself up in it, smell the leather and the Dean-ness on it. It's a delicious, intoxicating fantasy, and as Dean passes him by Castiel indulges himself by sneaking a sniff.

The smell of leather and dust and sunlight. Oh, dear God, how he wants it.

Dean stops only a pace past him and turns. His grin is sun-bright, and he's very, very close. Never mind sneaking a sniff, Castiel's now inhaling his scent wholesale. He could stand here all night and forget entirely about dinner.

"I don't have much," he says, jolting himself out of the contemplation, "but I might be able to fry some bacon, or make pasta..."

"You had me at bacon," Dean says with a leering grin that comes oh-so-close.

"Breakfast for dinner?"

"Every day of the week."

"You must like diners."

"I like home cooking better."

Even closer. Castiel's heart is hammering. "I'll cook for you, then."

He is this close to going out on a limb, to suggesting Dean stay the night and have breakfast for breakfast as well as for dinner, and Dean's just staring at him, not moving, not asking for his damn bacon. The smell of the leather is turning Castiel's mind to mush.

"You must be starving," he forces himself to say. His eyes fall to Dean's lips, the stubble on his jaw. "You pushed that Harley three miles."

"I could eat," Dean says, and he sounds as dazed as Castiel is feeling.

He struggles to breathe. "I think I'm feeling a little light-headed, too."

He wavers. His weight shifts from foot to foot. It's like the instant before rain, when something is about to burst and the whole atmosphere is holding its breath.

It doesn't come. Castiel lets out a sigh and steps back. "I'll start preparing--"

Slam. The wall behind him, his back complaining, his shoulders pushed back. Castiel is winded, his breath stolen, and when he inhales again the scent of leather inundates him. Dean's breath touches his own, puffs meeting in midair, and Castiel is sure he can feel the touch of lightning where they come together.

He meets Dean's eyes. They're wide and scared.

"Tell me I should go," Dean whispers. "Tell me to stop, say I should leave, you don't know me, Cas, you don't know what I could do, tell me to go."

The words are transparent, like glass. Castiel's seen this man one too many times, known him without knowing him far too long, to hear anything but what he's really saying.

"Stay," he says. His hands lift to Dean's shoulders, up and back to touch the nape of his neck, his jaw. "Stay the night."

* * *

Thunder sounds in the distance, or maybe it's the rev of motors on a highway too far away to see. It could rain or hail or even snow tonight and Dean wouldn't notice. His universe begins and ends in this room, the wide world he roams across all day and all night suddenly further away than dreams or Heaven.

Castiel's hand travels up his cheek. "Stay the night. Please."

Dean's dumb, slack-jawed. He shakes his head. "You don't know me."

Castiel nods readily. "I don't. I want to. I need to know you, Dean." His thumb touches the corner of Dean's mouth. On the back of Dean's neck, his other hand is pulling, fingers sliding beneath the leather collar of his jacket, unfamiliar warmth.

Not so unfamiliar, though. He's felt that warmth before. In Castiel's gaze, his smile. In the unspoken words they've shared every time Dean blew through this middle-of-nowhere gas station, a novelist's hideaway, like the site of a buried treasure.

Dean's smile stretches beneath Castiel's thumb. He turns his head and kisses the tip of it.

"Dean." The name is a groan.

Dean lowers his mouth to Castiel's, kisses him soft but hot, melting like sugar into his mouth and the longing grip of his hands. A sound bursts up from his lungs, a needy groan of want, and resounds inside the wetness of Castiel's mouth. Dean licks it back up again, hungry, his body awash with heat radiating from every contact point. Hips and shoulders and hands and mouth, pinning Castiel to the wall, holding him fast as though any minute he might come to his senses and run away.

He doesn't. He pulls Dean in further, and there's a loneliness to his kiss that Dean understands, deep into his bones. Castiel stays here, away from people, afraid of their passion and their disregard for his space. Dean flies from place to place, afraid of the same thing. They're living the same lives, one still and one in motion, solitary and free but lonely.

No wonder Castiel's body fits under his so perfectly. No wonder, when he draws a groan from pink, wet lips, it harmonizes so well with his own.

He lifts Castiel up. Eager legs wrap around his waist. Castiel's surprisingly light in his arms, no woman but certainly no trouble to carry. Certainly easier than pushing the Harley for three miles.

It's only three yards to the bedroom door. And they're kissing, wrapped up in each other, for all three.

* * *

They've spoken no more than a few dozen words to each other their whole lives. But Castiel knows this man, knows him as though he'd made him, created him up from the dust that swirls on the road on windy nights like tonight and breathed life into him. He's swept away by the depth of knowledge and comfort here, in the cradle of Dean's arms. He smiles. Again. He's smiled more tonight than he has in years.

Dean's holding him like he's something precious, hands flat against his back as Dean kisses down the line of his stomach, and Castiel feels like a whole person, not just a name on a book cover, not just a face behind a counter. His chest and legs and core are pumping with lifeblood.

"Should have made you-- ah-- keep the coat on," he whispers, breaking into a shout when Dean licks sensitive skin. "Love the smell-- leather."

Dean presses his nose to the crux of Castiel's thighs and inhales. "I like this better," he breathes, and kisses Castiel's flesh, and Castiel's throat goes so dry he can't even whisper.

It turns out he doesn't need the jacket. Dean's skin smells and tastes of it, of the thousands of miles that coat has traveled and the sun and wind it has endured. Castiel's brought with him to the Grand Canyon, down to the Mexican border and up north to places where mountains stay snow-capped all year round. He's dizzy, inundated with images, all in the press of Dean's body against his, the tang of salt and something bitter on his skin. His world's in motion, and he hangs on to Dean with all his mind to keep from falling off.

After they've moved together and cried out together, Castiel traces the lines of his muscles, kisses his neck and marvels at how very at home he finally feels. "What now?" he murmurs.

"You tell me," Dean says. His voice is thick with sleep. "I got nowhere to be."

"Yes, you do." Castiel locks eyes with him. "Out there."

"Then come with me." Dean squeezes him tight.

"Someday. Not now."

Dean nods. "Okay."

It's odd; it ought to be sad, or at least bittersweet, but it's not. Dean will go, and Castiel will ache for him while he's gone, but that isn't a bad thing. Castiel is a world-builder, and his world with Dean lives within the confines of this small place, this middle-of-nowhere gas-station oasis surrounded by desert and highway. He's here by choice, and he won't leave. It's just that, for the first time, he has someone he wants to let in.

They kiss goodbye in the morning, and the Harley, gleaming with her brand-new artificial heart, speeds off to the horizon. Castiel watches him go, then steps upstairs and pulls out his computer.

"The Angel Detective II," he types. "The Devil Rides a Harley."

It's probably too cheesy for a title, but the concept's solid. Castiel sits back and watches the world take shape.

~*the end*~  



End file.
